“Isn’t it obvious? The Star Isles were missing a key ingredient: a real, healthy blood-witch. With your biology we can refine winalin until it becomes stable. And a new generation of blood-witches will have the perfect teacher, ready and waiting to help them conquer their power.”

Faces flashed behind her eyes. Yeva and Asyil, destroyed by a virus that ripped them apart from the inside. Talis, a girl barely over thirteen, cowering in her parents’ house and whimpering as false blood-magic flickered in her veins.

“Have you ever seen anything like this before? Witches from every coven in the same room, coming together for the same goal. The same cause. And the cause is you, child.” Ongrum squeezed her shoulder. “None of us will ever be weak again. Imagine a world where, instead of a handful of blood-witches every generation, we have hundreds. A world where all of us have that power.”

Ranka backed away from her. Her spine collided with the wall, and she held up her hands as if to ward Ongrum off. “You mean to use me,” Ranka realized. “As an experiment, until winalin works for real. To create the weapon the Star Isles always dreamed of.”

“No, child. To create the weapon we’ve always dreamed of.”

“Winalin has killed every witch it’s infected—”

“So we keep practicing until we get it right.” Ongrum shrugged. “And until then even the ones who don’t survive it long-term will have their uses.”

How could Ongrum ask this of her, after everything she’d done? She’d given up everything for her—first Vivna, then Yeva and Asyil.

She had given up Percy. Galen.

She’d given up Aramis.

And instead of earning Ongrum’s approval, her love, or the trip back home she dreamed of, Ranka had merely cemented her future as an experiment instead.

A monster, destined to spend the rest of her days creating more.

“Ongrum, we have no idea if this will even work,” Ranka said desperately. “No blood-witch on record has ever conquered their blood-magic. It’s killed every single one of them—even the past Bloodwinns. My entire life has been a ticking clock for the day this power ruins me—and you want dozens of witches to take that on willingly?”

The kernel pulsed deep in her chest. Her senses had dulled when her blood-magic retreated, but now the vivid colors of the hallway, the delirious greed alighting Ongrum’s face, and the blood on her clothes felt like some kind of sensory assault.

“The other Bloodwinns were weak. Eventually, something has to stick.”

“The other Bloodwinns thought blood-magic had no chance of mastery,” Ranka said. “They thought it was like a parasite, or a chronic infection, designed to kill the host. Ongrum, if that’s true…”

Then Ongrum was ensuring they would have an entire generation of blood-witches who died a horrific, torturous death.

“Who told you that?” Ongrum sneered. “The princess?”

“Well, yes—”